


Shut Out the Light

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Angst, Circuit Sex, Circuit Touching, Death References, Dubious Consent, M/M, Program Sex, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a tragedy in the real world, Kevin Flynn seeks solace on the Grid. (Pre-Legacy)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Out the Light

Tron doesn't need to see the light of the beacon to know when Kevin Flynn is present on the Grid.

Everyone else looks to the light of the portal to tell them if their Creator is among them. That spot on the horizon that hangs dark, heavy with the illusion of emptiness in the long cycles of Flynn's absences. Life on the Grid continues during those in-between moments, of course. It did before Clu—a calm plateau of existence waiting for its designer to return and continue his work.

And it does now, faster and brighter than ever with Clu here to build, to maintain. A program himself, Clu cannot truly create. Not the way Flynn can. But he's a copy so exact that it staggers Tron. There are moments it seems there's nothing beyond Clu's control.

Clu makes Tron nervous sometimes, especially now that the ISOs have woven themselves thoroughly into the landscape and made things so much more (unpredictable) interesting. Tron has his own hands full in Flynn's absence—combating the glitches and grid bugs that trouble the system—and there are times he wishes he could keep a closer eye on Clu.

But these thoughts are unpleasant ones, and Tron hasn't yet resolved to voice his concerns to Flynn. Clu is Flynn's program, after all. If a User sees no reason to be concerned, who is Tron to question.

Tron does question, though. He questions Flynn about many things—has worked with the User long enough to know Flynn genuinely values his opinion. His concerns. Flynn will unfailingly throw a reassuring arm over Tron's shoulders, and (when he's here) fix every problem so quickly, so easily, that Tron has difficulty quelling his own sense of awe.

He tries to keep such reactions concealed. He knows Flynn prefers to indulge in the illusion that they are equals in this objective. And while Tron himself occasionally feels presumptuous maintaining that illusion, it's worth it for the way Flynn smiles for him when it works.

It's worth it if it means Flynn will keep coming to him, keep trusting Tron with the security of his precious Grid.

Tron doesn't need the light of the beacon as a signal, because when Flynn is present he can feel it. Somewhere, in the deepest levels of his root code, where he's been modified and upgraded over cycles upon cycles, Tron feels a subtle shift when Kevin Flynn enters the Grid.

He feels that shift now, and turns toward the open portal. The beam has just begun to surge, bright flush of blue-white light spreading behind distant clouds, and Tron returns to his light cycle and sets a course into the city.

 

\- — - — - — -

He maneuvers through the streets in quick turns, fast sharp angles, and reaches the city limits just as Flynn is stepping down from a broad, magnificent ship (already derezzing out of existence behind him) and onto the shore. The Sea of Simulation rolls endlessly beyond, lit by the distant beacon's glow, and Tron finds himself momentarily transfixed by the sight.

He approaches Flynn on foot, hands outstretched in greeting, and realizes even before they exchange words that something is different this time.

Something is wrong.

"Tron," Flynn says, and instead of the usual arm slung over Tron's shoulders in greeting he pulls Tron into a full-bodied hold. There's something uneven in his voice for even that single syllable, and Flynn's arms hold him surprisingly tightly. Flynn's breath is a warm gust over Tron's cool cheek.

As physically affectionate a man as Flynn is, this is still a new experience. Tron is accustomed to a great variety of touches from the mercurial User. This embrace is nothing like them. It takes him briefly back to memories pixilated with age—an old system, a beautiful program named Yori—but there's something different. Something almost desperate in the way Flynn is holding onto him now.

Before Tron can ask what's wrong, Flynn steps away and gives him a rueful smile.

Even in the smile there's something not quite right, but Tron doesn't know of any way to approach the subject.

He deals in combat tactics and battle strategy. Moments like this fall outside his usual purview.

"It's good to see you, Flynn," says Tron. "There's been a great deal of progress in the ISO sectors since your departure. The Eastern Relay Tower is nearly complete."

"That's good," says Flynn. "Show me?"

They're close enough to make the journey on foot, so Tron leaves his light cycle where it is (theft is a futile gesture on this Grid, especially when Flynn himself is with them, and even if some program were inclined to make the attempt they would never get the cycle to run).

They travel bright, silent streets, and the quiet between them feels more strained than usual. Tron is filled with the urge to reach out and offer physical contact to the man beside him. He wonders if it would offer reassurance against whatever unspoken troubles are darkening Flynn's thoughts.

Normally Tron would be content to let the silence persist.

No, he amends to himself. Normally the silence would not persist, regardless of Tron's inclinations. Flynn would fill the quiet with excited chatter—much of it indecipherable to Tron in their earlier cycles together but slowly coming to construct an overwhelming picture of the world above—the world Flynn is always returning to, his responsibilities firmly and constantly split.

In the face of this unaccustomed silence, Tron finds himself uncomfortably adrift, and when they round a corner into a busier, noisier street he finally speaks.

"How is Sam?" he asks.

He understands the concept of fathers and sons, if only in the abstract. And he knows that there is no subject in the entire Grid that can brighten Flynn's expression the way talking about his son inevitably does.

Tron calculates the time differential in his head. Sam should be four years old now.

But instead of answering, or smiling or shedding the weighty gloom that darkens his features, Flynn flinches slightly at the question.

The motion is barely visible. Any other program might have missed it. But Tron is programmed to watch for the barest of details in his surroundings, and there is nothing he watches quite as closely as User Kevin Flynn.

"Sam is healthy," says Flynn. There's no lie in the statement, but he refuses to meet Tron's eyes even after answering.

When silence settles again, Tron doesn't try to break it.

"That's new, isn't it?" Flynn asks when they pass a tall, perfectly symmetrical fountain. His expression is a little too focused, too deliberately intent as he considers the structure at the center of a wide silver plaza.

"Yes." Tron knows better than to call him out. "Clu has erected several such modules throughout the city. They're purely aesthetic for now, but eventually he intends for them to serve as—"

"Modulated current nodes," Flynn finishes, nodding his approval. "Radical."

The silence is not so complete after that. Flynn finds other questions to ask about the city's structure, the minutiae of the progress Clu has been making, the incidents of glitching in the new sectors as the city expands. Tron humors his inquiries, even the ones to which Flynn clearly presupposes the correct answers.

When they reach their destination, Flynn whistles a sliding note of admiration. Tron follows his gaze, up smooth lines and integrated planes, and even though he knows the sight is beautiful, Flynn's approval only makes it more so.

"Now _that_ is something," says Flynn, and for a moment the darkness disappears from his eyes.

It's back again a moment later, sharper and stronger than before, but at least he _looks_ at Tron when he says, "I want to see her from a distance."

 

\- — - — - — -

They find Flynn's desired view from a room at the top of Sector Seventeen's main security terminal.

This room in particular serves no purpose beyond the view itself. It's as close as Tron has to a main office—this and the similar spaces crafted in the other sections of the city. It allows him to watch and record Grid activity, gives him a high, secure vantage point from which to perform all the necessary scans.

There's only one wall to this room, behind them where the door has already locked tightly shut. The rest of the perimeter is contained by a clear, wide-spanning bubble of transparent material. A sturdy railing circles the same perimeter, waist high and comprised of blunt angles.

Tron stands at this railing now, his hands hanging at his sides. It's his default stance—relaxed but never more than an instant from having his disc in hand—and in his peripheral vision Flynn stands leaning his weight on the railing, staring out at the bright tower that is the tallest structure in this corner of the horizon.

"Beautiful," says Flynn. His voice sounds even heavier now than it did on the street below.

Tron briefly considers simply asking Flynn what's wrong. He dismisses the idea just as quickly. Pressing the User will win him nothing, Tron knows that much from experience.

But with no other viable tactics in his arsenal, he's stuck waiting for Flynn to make a move. He consoles himself that Flynn must have _some_ purpose here, unpredictable though that purpose might be. If he's patient, eventually Flynn will give him something to work with.

But Flynn doesn't seem inclined to speak. He mostly seems inclined to brood—a word Tron knows thanks to Flynn's propensity for accusing him of the same—silent and stubborn. He steps back from the railing eventually, several steps that Tron follows by sound once Flynn is out of his line of sight.

Flynn paces then, several times back and forth across the room, and finally comes to a stop immediately behind Tron. Tron feels impatience like a flutter in his circuits, concern and confusion in equal parts, matched almost exactly by a quiet guilty frustration at his inability to help.

The silence is stifling.

But when Flynn moves with unexpected speed—stops just behind Tron, close enough to reach past him and rest a hand on the guardrail immediately to Tron's right—the silence is suddenly the last thing on Tron's mind.

Tron's own hands want to tense at his sides now, even though there's no threat here. He resists the urge.

Flynn edges closer, and his body is a line of heat along Tron's back and side. Flynn is always warmer than everything around him. User power, or perhaps simply a heat that comes from existing outside the Grid, but whatever the cause he's warm against Tron now. And completely still. The quiet of the room now is weighted with some purpose Tron can't decipher.

The closeness itself isn't unfamiliar. Tron has become more than accustomed to the casual way Flynn offers touches to those around him—arms, shoulders, hands and elbows—friendly, easy, simple.

This touch is different.

There's nothing easy about it, no excited chattering of ideas to give it purpose, no uncontained exuberance to offer it direction.

Just Flynn at his back, hovering as though he's hanging on the verge of some vital decision.

Tron feels a surprised skip in his programming when Flynn lets go of the railing and raises his hand to set his palm flat against Tron's chest. The physical sensation isn't completely unfamiliar, though it's been so long Tron finds the memories difficult to summon. That was with Yori, though. A different touch, soft and teasing.

Tron feels a ripple of something worrisome (wanting) in his chest when he wonders just what it is Flynn intends with this touch.

Tron opens his mouth in what will be a simple enough query—a quick request for clarification—and the attempt ends wordlessly, trailing off on a gasp when a cascade of unexpected sensation pulses through his code, starting deep in his chest, below the spot where Flynn's hand rests.

It almost feels like an accident—like the soft distortions that always briefly ripple through the Grid whenever Flynn creates some new marvel. Whatever the source of the sensation, it could have been unintended.

Then Flynn's hand shifts slightly higher, thumb brushing over the configuration of lights at the base of Tron's throat. The rippling, rushing sensation intensifies with the movement, following from the heat of Flynn's palm and coursing through Tron's code.

Not an accident, then. Another query vanishes unspoken as unidentified sensation gives way to pleasure in the wake of Flynn's touch.

Tron's hands are clenched at his sides now, he realizes. He forces them open, then gasps aloud at another burst of cascading warmth—grabs for the railing before him and tightens his fingers around the sturdy edges. His eyes are closed, too—another belated realization—and he clings harder to the guardrail, struggling to maintain coherent thought.

Flynn seems intent on undermining his efforts. His hand slides lower, exciting circuitry and jostling algorithms as he goes, and Tron blinks his eyes open long enough to see that the lines of energy in his armor are glowing brighter than usual—sharp and blue and intense.

His eyes close again the next instant. A hiss escapes his lips, startled and sharp, as Flynn's touch presses lower, and finally Tron moves to respond. He reaches with his left hand, capturing Flynn's right wrist and halting that questing contact in its tracks.

The confusing sensations don't stop entirely, but they bank to a manageable hum beneath his armor, and Tron takes a steadying breath.

It's hard to regard Flynn from this close, but he turns his head and does it anyway. His gaze is even and solid despite the startling proximity, Flynn watching him from practically on top of him, and the angle is awkward as Tron twists his neck and shoulders in order to make eye contact.

"You are behaving strangely," Tron says. He doesn't release his hold on Flynn's wrist, though he feels Flynn testing the firmness of his grip, pushing experimentally but not forcing the issue when Tron's fingers offer no give.

"Am I?" Flynn asks. There's a teasing note to his voice, something darker running beneath. His left hand, the one Tron wasn't keeping track of, finds its way to the nape of Tron's neck. Flynn's fingers card through Ton's hair in a way that is clearly intended to distract.

It's nearly successful. Even that light touch brings a tickle of sensation along with it that rubs beneath the surface and puts a low gasp in Tron's throat.

"Yes," Tron says, forcing himself to focus on their verbal exchange. Then, "Why?"

Instead of answering, Flynn tightens his grip where his fingers curl around the nape of Tron's neck. Fingers slide through hair, firm and commanding, and Flynn tugs him into a kiss.

Tron knows what a kiss is. He knows from Yori. He knows from dozens of memory upgrades since, providing him with information both useful and superfluous.

He doesn't know _why_ Flynn is kissing him, but the sensation is pleasant. Heat, contact, pressure coaxing him to part his lips and then when he does, Flynn's tongue ventures unapologetically past. Flynn's left hand remains a solid, guiding pressure urging him closer, urging the kiss deeper.

Flynn's right hand starts to move again.

Tron can't ask questions with his mouth otherwise occupied, and he's not sure what questions he would voice anyway. The trail of coherent inquiry is fraying away, eclipsed by the weight of sensations both physical and otherwise. Flynn does something, fingers ghosting over lit panels low on Tron's stomach, and it makes heat spark somewhere deep inside him. Tron gasps around Flynn's tongue, hand tightening on Flynn's wrist—not to restrain him this time, but simply to hold on.

He thinks the world explodes then, though it must be only him.

Light swells and washes the room, accompanied by an audible pulse of static and a sound that might be his voice but feels like it's coming from a great distance away. He's aware in a dim, overwhelmed corner of his thoughts of Flynn gasping against his throat (kiss lost in the explosion, lips suddenly hot against his skin), shuddering against him and holding on even more tightly, and then the light fades to darkness.

The darkness is too complete, Tron realizes as he blinks, exhausted and disjointed. His eyes are open, the transparent surface is right in front of his eyes, but the only light he can see beyond is the distant glow of the beacon. The towers and skyline of the rest of the sector are still there—he can see their smooth shadows against the horizon—but the lights have gone dark.

The room is bathed in darkness as well.

He glances blearily down at his hands where they still grasp the guardrail and realizes his own circuits have drifted to a dull, dim glow. Barely blue in the darkness.

He feels sated and heavy and drained, and it's only when Flynn starts guiding him towards the floor with gentle hands that Tron realizes he isn't supporting his own weight.

He feels the disjointed distortion of code around him that tells him Flynn is manipulating their surroundings somehow, and then he's sinking onto something softer than the smooth, hard floor he expects.

"Man," comes Flynn's soft murmur, close to Tron's ear as Flynn eases him down and then curls in beside him. "I really drained your circuits there, didn't I?" There's a new tone to his voice now. Something softer that Tron can't identify and doesn't have the resources to decipher right now. "Just… rest, okay? I'll get you recharged in no time."

Tron wants to answer, but his eyes are already closing.

 

\- — - — - — -

There are moments he nearly finds his way to consciousness—moments when the world comes closer into focus despite the fact that his eyes are closed, and he can still feel Flynn's warmth wrapped protectively around him.

He knows that's wrong. He knows _he_ is supposed to be the protector. But he's too exhausted to hang onto the thought, and Flynn's weight against his side—Flynn's arm thrown across him, Flynn's chin on his shoulder and hair tickling Tron's jaw—quickly lulls him back to an empty space that isn't quite sleep.

When he finally opens his eyes, the room is back to its usual luminosity. He can see the sparkle of the city through the transparent bubble of the wall. He's lying on something soft and low to the ground—a bed, he realizes as he shifts and the material gives comfortably beneath him.

His side is cold where Flynn should be, and Tron's eyes find the User sitting at the foot of the bed, curled in on himself with his feet braced on the floor. He has his knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, but mostly all Tron can see is the line of the User's back. Tense and tight.

Tron sits up cautiously, bracing himself on both arms and wondering how carefully he should tread. He's never seen Kevin Flynn look so small, and he's suddenly terrified that the man will simply leave rather than face whatever darkness is weighing on his shoulders.

"Tron, I'm sorry," Flynn says without looking at him. His voice sounds gritty. Tired. Ragged around the edges in a way Tron has never heard before. He doesn't interrupt, and Flynn continues, "Things are rough right now, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I shouldn't have taken advantage like that."

Tron feels something unpleasant twist in his stomach at the apology. He wants to contradict the User, tell him no advantage was taken, but his processors are already reviewing the events that brought them to this moment. There's no contradiction he can offer without sounding disingenuous, even patronizing.

The things Flynn did to him may have felt incredible—beyond anything Tron has ever experienced—but Tron knows they shouldn't have happened like this.

Tron has never lied to a User. He doesn't intend to start now.

Flynn is silent too long, offering no hint of further explanation. Tron feels fresh frustration rise inside him, and gives up on waiting.

"Flynn," he says. "Are you in danger? You know I can't protect you if I don't understand the parameters of the threat."

Flynn laughs, then, but it's nothing like the bright, irrepressible sound Tron usually associates with that word. There's no humor in this laugh. Only pain, and Tron watches Flynn scrub his fingers ruthlessly through his hair before finally turning enough to regard Tron over his shoulder.

"You can't protect me from this anyway, buddy. But I appreciate the sentiment." The quirk of smile on Flynn's face looks unnatural—forced—and he drops it quickly. Drops his eyes to the side, though he doesn't turn away as he says, "I'm fucked up right now. I'm sorry."

Tron doesn't want more apologies. He wants to understand. He wants to move closer to Flynn, set a hand on that impossibly tense shoulder, but he feels frozen where he is. He doesn't dare approach for fear that he'll send Flynn running and never learn what's haunting him.

"Please tell me what's wrong," says Tron. He'll beg if he has to.

"It's Jordan," Flynn finally says. His face goes unnaturally blank with the confession, though he shifts on the edge of the bed, angling towards Tron and finally looking at him again.

"Sam's mother," Tron says. "Your wife." More concepts from Flynn's world above that Tron has slowly come to understand in some small part.

"She's dead," Flynn says. The expression on his face flickers briefly from neutral blank to something sick and sharp and shattered. Then the empty expression is back, Flynn's features twitching but clinging to the illusion like a protective shield.

' _Dead_ ,' Tron thinks. Death is a concept he understands much more closely. Derezzing is an imperfect parallel, but near enough to offer a valid frame of reference, and suddenly Tron understands the broken shadows behind Flynn's eyes, if only a little.

He doesn't ask how. Understanding or not, there are limits to this particular frame of reference. And, selfishly, Tron thinks he doesn't want to know.

"I'm sorry," he says instead. The syllables feel pale and inadequate even as he speaks them.

Flynn shifts again, getting his knees beneath him and moving to Tron's side. Tron sits up straighter, looks up at Flynn with curious eyes. He's not sure what to expect now. He's not sure what to offer or say.

Flynn saves him the trouble, settling back on his heels and setting a hand flat in the space between them. Flynn's too busy staring down at his hand to look at Tron, but at least he finally speaks.

"Everything was a mess out there. _I_ was a mess. I thought maybe in here I could manage to not think for a while. It's such a different world, I thought maybe I could get her out of my head." He emits a low snort of sound, something like laughter but brief and bitter. "Stupid."

Tron doesn't respond. He's still not sure what to say.

Then Flynn's eyes find him, and his gaze pierces Tron so sharply that the security program feels frozen in place. There's no active intent in the look, but the intensity—the _feeling_ Tron finds there—is staggering.

"I thought seeing you might help," Flynn says, already cutting his eyes away, focusing at nothing in the space between them. "You're just so damn reliable. You always seem to know how to even me out when I'm spinning. I need that right now."

Flynn continues to stare at nothing. Tron can't get his vocal processors to work.

"I swear to god I didn't come down here planning to seduce you," says Flynn. "I just," he gives a small, helpless shrug. "Wanted to see you." Another humorless snort, sharp and self-deprecating. "Guess I got a little carried away."

He doesn't apologize again, though, and for that Tron is grateful.

Tron reaches out cautiously, hesitantly, and covers Flynn's hand with his own. He can't be a steadying influence if he doesn't do _something_ , and he still hasn't found any words to make this right. He'll settle for physical contact for now. Something harmless but kind. It's a gesture Flynn should understand, hopefully appreciate.

Flynn stills when Tron's hand closes over his, every trace of motion dropping away like discarded code, and the moment feels taut and electric when all Tron intended was to share a measure of calm.

The next instant is flurried with movement. Flynn's hand jostles beneath his own, jerking away then settling high on Tron's chest, shoving sharply. Tron wasn't prepared for this, whatever it is, and he falls back with a surprised sound as Flynn rises on his knees and maneuvers a leg over Tron's body, settling astride his hips.

Tron moves to sit up again, but the weight of Flynn's palm is insistent. Flynn's free hand wraps around the wrist Tron meant to use for leverage, pinning it down beside Tron's head where he lies on the soft, surreal surface of the bed. Flynn could never physically overpower him, and they both know it, but Flynn's touch is forceful and Tron doesn't know what to make of it.

"Careful, buddy," Flynn admonishes. The heat in his voice matches the heat Tron feels where their bodies touch. It sends a dangerous thrill through his systems, and he swallows in surprise.

"I only wanted to help," he protests, frustrated with himself and very much confused at the conflicting signals that are fast making his head spin.

His words draw Flynn up short, at least, and put a curious, considering expression on his face.

"You're really something else, you know that?" Flynn says. His fingers—the ones pinning Tron's wrist—slide in idle patterns, and his thumb on Tron's chest traces a corner of blue circuitry. He's not tinkering with the code beneath this time, but even the purely physical sensations are making Tron's chest feel warm and tight. "You know you blew the power feeds for this entire sector when you went off before?" That would explain the darkness, though Tron can't quite wrap his head around the idea that _he_ was the cause.

More likely it was the things Flynn did to his code, the overwhelming flood of the User's power overloading his system and taking the sector's power down with it.

Tron doesn't voice those protests aloud, though. He's a little too distracted by the way Flynn's fingers are skidding over his circuits.

"Please," he says, though he's not entirely sure what he's asking for.

Flynn leans closer, stares at Tron's mouth, and this time when his hand slips higher on Tron's chest there's a trickle of extra sensation that starts just beneath the surface, sensory input that shudders and spreads deeper—

—and stops abruptly as Flynn jerks his hands away and drops his forehead against Tron's shoulder with a heavy thump.

"God damn it," he breathes, curled over Tron's chest but keeping his hands to himself. "I'm— Fuck, I'm sorry." He draws a slow breath, lets it out in a controlled gust, then breathes in again just as slowly. Centering himself. Calming himself. Tron lies still beneath him and waits.

A mild tremor begins in the User's limbs. It's slight, wouldn't even be noticeable if they weren't pressed against each other like this, but Tron feels the shivers as though they're originating in his own body.

"I should leave," Flynn says in a thick, muffled voice.

Tron's entire system tenses up at the thought—his base code rebels at the idea of Flynn vanishing on him now. Flynn must misinterpret the sudden stiffness, because he starts to draw back. He clearly intends to retreat, and there's a muted vacancy in his eyes when he pulls away far enough for Tron to read his face. It's reminiscent of his earlier expression, and it makes Tron feel defeat and failure, unpleasant emotions that pulse through him uninvited. Kevin Flynn came to him because he thought Tron could help, and now he intends to leave because Tron failed.

Tron isn't thinking about the fact that if Flynn leaves now he might never come back. All he's thinking is that this man—Flynn, User, _Friend_ —is in pain, and he would do anything to make it right.

"No," he says simply.

Flynn blinks down at him in surprise. He's stopped mid-retreat and frozen in place, but he still looks ready to bolt at any moment. There's a fresh tension running through his shoulders.

Tron reaches for him without thinking, hands sliding to either side of Flynn's face, fingertips ghosting past messy wisps of hair.

"What—?" Flynn starts to ask, but Tron pulls him off balance, dragging him down and initiating a new kiss, circuits burning at the way Flynn collapses against him, the way Flynn's hands scramble for purchase as the User parts his lips and accepts what Tron is offering.

Flynn chuckles when they finally break apart, but this too is a bleak, disbelieving sound. Tron didn't know there were so many unhappy variations on the concept of laughter. Flynn doesn't try to renew his escape efforts, though. He drops more fully across Tron's chest, body a warm, reassuring weight, and buries his face against Tron's throat. His hands settle restlessly, one along Tron's side the other on his arm, idle caresses that are more about comfort than whatever this bright, heated mess is between them.

Tron returns the touches in kind, awkwardly at first, fearful of crossing any unwanted lines, but finally deciding any liberties he takes will be forgiven. He drapes one arm over Flynn's waist, lets his other hand rub what he hopes are soothing patterns over the small of the man's back.

" _Fuck_ ," Flynn breathes, and Tron realizes the User is trembling again.

He knows this is grief.

He tries to find words, fails, but wonders if maybe the words aren't important. Flynn holds onto him even more tightly as the slight tremors intensify, and then Flynn is shaking against him, clinging and gasping—making choked-off noises that jolt Tron straight down to his core.

He's never heard or felt anything like it. It hurts in a way his systems can't process, and he clings right back, hard enough that he must be hurting the human in his arms but no protest is forthcoming.

He holds Flynn, welcomes the warm weight bearing him down, and waits for the storm to pass.

 

\- — - — - — -

Flynn's eyes are dry and red when he finally untangles himself and stands. Tron is reluctant to let go, but he forces his limbs to relax, stomps down the protective instincts telling him to keep hanging on.

Flynn offers him a hand up, not quite making eye contact as he tugs Tron to his feet and the bed shimmers and dissolves into the floor. Tron regards him surreptitiously as they move for the door, noticing the peculiar mix of emotions warring across the User's face. Some of them he can decipher (embarrassment, guilt, sorrow), but others are far beyond his programming.

Flynn stops him at the door, putting himself between Tron and the panel that will open the portal into the hallway beyond.

"Thank you," Flynn says.

He looks like he wants to say more. He looks like he's on the cusp of leaning closer, and his hand rises, then drops back to his side, indecisive and uncertain.

Tron nods instead of answering in words. He doesn't trust words to convey all the confused nuances whirling through his thoughts as he regards Flynn now. There's too much. He can't risk getting it wrong.

A sharper flicker of indecision, and then Flynn is closing the distance between them, surprising Tron with one last, quick kiss that ends before he can decide how to respond. Flynn's face when he draws back is an unreadable mask. It doesn't worry Tron nearly as much this time.

He knows Flynn will have to shield himself to face the denizens of the Grid.

"Come on," says Flynn, clapping Tron on the arm and then sliding his hand, deceptively casually, to the small of Tron's back. He smacks the panel with his other hand and the door opens in what was previously a seamless patch of wall. "Clu is probably wondering where we're hiding by now, especially considering the power failure."

"We shouldn't keep him waiting," Tron agrees. "He will probably be concerned."

They navigate the hall, quick and purposeful, and Flynn doesn't take his hand back until they step outside.

 

\- — - fin - — -


End file.
